


By the Lake

by MW (johnlockedfangirl)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Boats, Contest Entry, First Kiss, Fluff, Lakes, M/M, Mild Language, One-Shot, Summer Camp AU, Tumblr contest, teen, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockedfangirl/pseuds/MW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-Shot in which Sherlock and John are at a summer camp together. They're best mates, but will they realise their true feelings for one another? A night by the lake might tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Lake

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, first post under my ‘tumblr’ pseud. This is a work of fanfiction for a contest, sort of a one-shot / sneak peek of a fic I’m thinking about writing. Depending on feedback I may or may not expand this little universe. The contest’s theme was Summer! And this, of course, is teen!lock. (Because fuck yeah teen!lock!)
> 
> And just in case I don’t get around to clarifying: John is 18, Sherlock 17 but (obviously) acts much older. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own sappy and sleep-deprived ideas. Hope you enjoy!

John Watson couldn’t sleep.

After a few hours of light dozing and rolling from side to side, he simply couldn’t relax enough to drop off. He lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, and stared up at the “ceiling” - the wooden bottom of the top bunk that lay just above him. Though he was tired from the day’s activities, he seemed to be the only resident of B cabin who was still awake. The soft breathing of his cabin-mates was a gentle sound, interrupted only by snores or the creaking of the beds as they shifted. They all seemed fast asleep. All of them, except for John. 

And perhaps except for his most dramatic friend, Sherlock. 

John had heard somewhere that the best way to get to sleep when one couldn’t was not to think about sleeping. John chose to peruse the topic of his best friend instead. 

Rather than take a peek and risk getting asked any awkward questions, John tried to imagine what he’d look like at the moment. Was he sprawled out, mouth slack, as he slumbered? Or perhaps he was curled up, his curls askew over the pillow? 

John strained his ears, but he heard nothing. He flushed a deep shade of pink as he realised abruptly that it likely wasn’t normal for a bloke to fantasise - _imagine, think about_ he corrected his thoughts, though those really weren’t any better - to ponder ( _Jesus_ ) what their best friend looked like while sleeping. 

John rolled over to his side with a soft huff. Maybe he’d try thinking of nothing, that’s what Sherlock claimed he did half the time anyway. Fine, then. 

He closed his eyes. It was quiet, but the quiet seemed so loud, until he imagined he heard a quiet creak from above. Was Sherlock even sleeping up there? 

Oh, what did he care. Sherlock could sleep or he could lay there thinking like he claimed he did. It didn’t matter to John. It shouldn’t matter to him. John groaned to himself, punching his pillow and pinning it beneath his head as he rolled over again, to his other side. Focus on nothing. Right. He fluttered his eyes open again and nearly fell off of the mattress. 

Sherlock was staring intently at him, his face less than a yard from John’s. And he was hanging upside down over the side of his bed, navy blue shadows accenting his prominent cheekbones. It was a good thing this had happened before else John might have shrieked. A bedmate that liked hanging off of the bunk in the middle of the night and staring at him was not fun to have after a round of ghost stories at the camp’s bonfire. Not that John believed them. Most of them. 

“What are you doing?” John asked in an angry whisper. “You should be sleeping.”

Sherlock blinked, the silent equivalent of a scoff. “So should you.”

John opened his mouth to quietly tell him to sod off and go the bloody hell to sleep, but he didn’t get the chance. Sherlock’s head retreated back to the top bunk, and John deduced by the ominous creaking above that he was not going to use the ladder provided to get down from the bed. “Don’t -” John’s whispered reprimand never reached him. 

Sherlock was a pale and indigo blur as he jumped off of the bed. John waited for the inevitable _thunk_ , the rush of footsteps as the counsellors came running… 

But Sherlock landed softly and soundlessly on the balls of his feet, an amused expression on his face as he looked down at John though the darkness.

John felt frazzled as he sat up to face his bed mate; but perhaps he could just blame it on sleep-deprivation. John felt underdressed, ridiculous, because Sherlock was very much _overdressed_ , wearing his coat and scarf as though he were planning to go somewhere. John felt his hair sticking up in odd places, and his shirt had ridden up his side due to his tossing and turning. 

John scowled at him, pulling the blankets aside to swing his legs over the side of the bed. There was definitely no chance of him sleeping when Sherlock was out of bed. In the time it had taken him to stand up, Sherlock had strode to his suitcase and slipped on his socks and shoes. “Coming?” He asked, his voice no longer a whisper.

“Shh! Coming where?” John felt the hems of his pyjama trousers pooling around his bare feet. Even hiked up his waist, they were still too long for him. That's what came of borrowing from Sherlock. He crossed his arms over his thin t-shirt. Sherlock still hadn’t answered him, but stood up, grabbing something. His torch, John saw, and that was only because it was rudely flashed in his eyes a moment later. 

“We’re going to the lake,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, seeming pleased that the light still worked. A bit surprising, since John was pretty sure he’d submerged it in the lake multiple times for who-knew-what purpose. John was too exasperated to even ask why. 

_We’re going to the lake._ Spoken like he had little choice in the matter. Which he supposed he didn’t. With a sigh, watching as Sherlock stalked out of the door (without bothering to shut it), John gathered up his shoes, his own torch, and a jumper. Clutching these items to his chest, he ran after his best friend. 

Sherlock was halfway to the lake, the gravel crunching softly underneath his shoes as he walked. John had to drape his jumper over an arm and jam his torch under his armpit while awkwardly hopping and skipping as he tried to catch up and put his shoes on at the same time. 

Eventually, John managed to get himself decently dressed, and made his way to Sherlock’s side. The brunet was bending over near the side of the lake, wading through the tall grass. He uttered a low cry and pulled something from the reeds. John glimpsed the prow of a boat, and he frowned to himself. 

“Where on earth did you get a boat, Sherlock?” 

The lake was large enough for the games they played, perfect for swimming in, but not large enough to warrant each cabin of students having their own boats. The counsellors could hardly handle four rowboats; let alone a fleet. 

But theirs were plain; using his torch John could see this was sleek and painted. “Found it,” Sherlock replied easily, as he cast aside the cattails he’d used to shield it from unsuspecting eyes. No doubt he’d “found it” on some fool’s property and deemed it wasn’t being watched close enough to warrant not taking it off their hands. 

John simply sighed and helped the younger teen in uncovering it. It went into the water smoothly, silently, breaking the star-studded water with small ripples. 

Sherlock chose to sit back and man the helm, which meant he watched as John rowed. There were two sets of oars and two sets of oarlocks; though the ones nearest to Sherlock were empty, and the oars themselves were still tucked away on the floor of the boat.

John panted as he struggled to manoeuvre the boat away from the shore. “You should be carrying a parasol.” He muttered. 

“A what?”

“Oh… never mind.” John shook his head, not wanting to waste his breath explaining petty references. Sherlock wouldn’t fancy being compared to a woman, or maybe he would, those cheekbones were to die for. Wow, he really must be sleep-deprived. _Get it together, Watson._ He rowed them out to the middle of the lake before he stopped. John took a moment to catch his breath, while Sherlock leaned back, his limbs spreading out over the sides of the boat, a few pale fingers trailing in the water. 

John tilted his head back, feeling the gentle motion of the boat under him and the cool breeze wash over him. He looked up, into the expanse of stars above them. He could see the milky way. 

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s question seemed to blend in with the night.

John looked at him a moment. “I thought you didn’t care about - “ 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” 

“Oh.” Oh. That was fine. John liked that answer. 

They relaxed for a while before John’s trance was broken by a yawn. “So, Sher - “ Another yawn. “What exactly are we doing here?” At this time of the night, more importantly. 

“Isn’t this good enough for you?” Sherlock waved a hand lazily up at the stars. 

“Well, yeah. I suppose. But if I know anything, it’s that it’s not good enough for you.”

Sherlock finally looked at him then, and John could’ve sworn he saw a twinkle in his eye. A twinkle? Good God, he needed to go to bed. 

John couldn’t decide if Sherlock’s grin was genuine or mischievous. Whatever. It was like three in the morning. 

“Do you remember that story the counsellor told us?”

“Which one?” John decided to lay back as well, mirroring Sherlock’s position and hoping the weight was distributed evenly. 

“The one about the lake.”

“If this is about that aluminium crutch story, I swear - “

“No, no, no.” Sherlock sat up suddenly, rocking the boat. John clutched at the planks below him as they bobbed. 

A colder wind had come over the lake, and the waves were more than just ripples. 

The boat felt dangerously close to tipping, in John’s mind. “Sherlock…” He uttered a warning, but Sherlock was going on about something still. 

“... And if the counsellor had just explained things properly, at the beginning, then the ending would be obvious, of course - ” 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock, as he tended to do when excited, had risen his voice. And as his voice rose, so had he, and soon he was in a sitting position leaning close into John and talking. Because he tended to take up so much room for such a skinny bloke, that meant John was pushed nearly to the edge. And with the wind just right, and the boat tipping just so, all this meant that poor John went tumbling into the water. 

All thoughts of previous campfire stories were lost as John sank through a veil of bubbles. The water was ice cold. Bloody hell, it was _freezing._ Well. That was one way to wake a man up. 

“You - sodding - _Sherlock!_ ” John spluttered as he came up for air, grabbing at the side of the boat. 

Sherlock wore an amused expression. “You’re the sodden one here.” 

John’s groan was slightly louder than the wind. “You know, humour doesn’t suit you.” He frowned as he hooked his arms over the sides. “You should just stick to i - ”

The blond teen’s eyes suddenly widened. Fear flashed across his face. Sherlock became concerned. “What’s - ” 

“There’s - s-something in the lake. It - Something’s grabbed me!” John’s hands scrabbled at the wood planks as his torso started sinking beneath the water. 

_“What?”_

Sherlock grabbed frantically at John’s sodden clothing to pull him away from the threat. He had hauled John halfway up the side of the boat before his wits caught up to him and he paused, hands fisted in John’s dripping jumper, his gaze narrowing. “You’re bluffing.” He let go and sat back in the boat. “There’s nothing in this lake.”

Revenge was sweet. “Maybe there is. A giant squid, perhaps.” John ceased his struggling, speaking in all seriousness, but his tight expression betrayed the fact he was trying not to laugh. 

This breach of logic assured Sherlock even more, and his nose wrinkled at the teen’s atrocious suggestion. “In this lake? Oh, please. There have been no instances of freshwater cephalopods, _ever._ And besides, to support such a large creature, this body of water would have to be, oh, at least - “ 

John spat water at Sherlock’s face to shut him up. “Oh, right, _of course_.” He scoffed softly, a grin on his lips. “No such thing as a freshwater squid. Why didn’t I realise that?”

A wry smile grew on Sherlock’s face. He wiped a few droplets that had actually hit him from the bridge of his nose. 

“Because you’re an idiot.” 

Silence fell over the lake. John looked at Sherlock, the planes of his face highlighted in the moonlight, and he felt strangely warm inside, despite the chill of the water he was soaking in. He sighed. “Why did you really bring me here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked over at him. “You really ought to get out of the water, John. You’ll catch a chill.”

“Chills be damned, I want to know what we’re doing out here in the middle of the night.” But damn, if he didn’t have a cold tomorrow he’d be pleasantly surprised. Sherlock’s eyes shifted from the empty oarlock beside him to the prow of the boat to the moon above - avoiding John’s eyes and avoiding the question. Odd. Sherlock had an answer for everything. Why wouldn’t he answer? Hm. A bribe might be in order. What the hell, he’d likely contracted the cold anyway. “I’ll stay in this water until I contract hypothermia unless you tell me.”

This elicited a snort from the brunet. “It’s cold, but it’s not that cold. We are still in the summer months, you know. You’ll be fine.”

“That’s not a proper answer and you know it.” John was teasing, but Sherlock did not seem to understand. He blew a long breath out of his nose, finally locking eyes with John.

They were pale in the moon’s light, almost as pale as the moon itself. Whether it was a trick of this light or not John was sure he saw something there he’d never seen before. Was that... _affection?_

“I must confess,” stated Sherlock, “That you are the most interesting boy I’ve ever met.”

John raised a dripping eyebrow. “So, you woke me in the middle of the night and threw me in a lake because I am… interesting?” 

“I will say that is not exactly how I planned this evening to go.” 

“Oh? And how was it supposed to go?” 

Sherlock’s voice was lower now. “I… I am not precisely sure. You know I do not do very well with these… things.” 

John chewed on that a moment. He knew very well what Sherlock meant by “these things.” 

He could hear the memory now: These _things,_ John. These damn emotions. They don’t make any sense! The fact Sherlock was now trying to muddle through these things he didn’t understand made John feel a bit warmer inside, for some strange reason. 

With a couple of failed attempts John managed to pull himself out of the water and threw a leg over the edge, the vessel tipping dangerously. Teetering on the edge, John suddenly leaned forward, kissed Sherlock on the very tip of his nose, and tumbled into the boat, landing on his back. 

He was a sopping wet mess and he’d banged his shins as he tumbled. Frankly, the tipping of the boat was making him nauseous and he was bloody exhausted. But all that was forgotten as he caught an upside-down glimpse of Sherlock’s surprised expression. 

Sherlock’s brows were deeply furrowed, and his eyes were wide. John had never seen him so confused before. He laughed.

Sherlock asked, “Did you just -”

“Yes.” John replied softly. 

“So… you... “

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not gay.”

John broke out into a grin. “Not gay. Don’t you ever take a hint? I’m bisexual, you berk.”

If the kiss had surprised Sherlock, this confession blew him out of the water. He scoffed, more to salvage his pride than anything. “Why didn’t I notice that?” 

John was grinning so wide it hurt his face. “Because you’re an idiot.”

There was silence for a long moment before their laughter echoed across the moonlit lake. And this time it was Sherlock who kissed him.

Properly.


End file.
